


Freeze Frame

by TheNarcolepticOne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fanart, Ice Skating, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-17 10:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13074639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNarcolepticOne/pseuds/TheNarcolepticOne
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is up against one of the most elite skaters ever to come out of the United States, and he’s not happy about it. It’s not a good feeling to know that a contest can be predestined for failure. But it’s worth a try.





	Freeze Frame

**Author's Note:**

> HEY GUYS, IT'S GETTING TO THAT TIME OF YEAR AGAIN.  
> Here's a thing I did for the USUK Christmas Countdown! Art courtesy of Lagwehh on Tumblr! Follow them @lagwehh or @little-ocean-art. Their art is so amazing and _everyone should check 'em out it's so incredible_  
>  ([Link Here](https://little-ocean-art.tumblr.com/))
> 
> Also a HUGE disclaimer: All of the content in this story is more relationship focused than technically focused on Ice Skating. I've been told by a source that this story is not accurate to the sport and it's technical rules, as well as an inaccurate description of some particular action scenes. Viewer discretion for that, but otherwise, I hope it's alright!

Silence.

Arthur doesn’t hear the voices of the announcers in the stadium. He knows he should be listening, but he knows it doesn’t help him. He’s only concentrated with the blasting volume of music on his phone, with cheap earbuds shoved into his ears. There is a painful pressure that he feels from the fat ear tips, but it traps the deep bass beats effectively. His heart beats along with the song, paced and slow.

This does not last long. Arthur takes one glance at the doors leading to the locker room and completely falls out of sync with the song. The rhythm is off and he finds no success in trying to match his raging heartbeat anymore. He sighs, sliding his finger to the left to rewind the song all over again.

He’s seated upon the chipped concrete, yellow parking bumper in the lot; eyes wandering in many directions to avoid the doorway but never seeming to settle anywhere for too long before the dread returns to him. He’s counted the number of cars he could see; counted the number of minutes before he knew he had before it was his turn: little more than fifteen.

Arthur sighs, eyes closing.

But they snap open again when he feels a touch on his shoulder, and a sparkling figure coming to sit next to him. Arthur turns his head, and he instantly regrets this. It is the person who was the cause of his anxiety.

Alfred F. Jones.

The man smiles back at Arthur, and it is worth one million dollars behind it, plus a career in the making. Jones’ performance outfit is still on, with a sliver of shining sparkles underneath a worn out, bomber jacket that really didn’t look like it matched at all. Something he half expected for some reason.

Jones makes a motion of removing the headphones, indicating for Arthur to do. Arthur sighs, doing so for the sake of politeness.

“...you doin’ okay there?” He asks right off the bat.

Arthur snorts. He knows Alfred well enough through various encounters. He’s obnoxiously sympathetic, and overall didn’t know how intimidating he came off to be. A hopeless romantic perhaps, behind an exterior of extreme skill and technique.

“...it never really does get easier to deal with, does it?” Arthur says instead, gaze going to the floor and sighing. “I mean... how audiences go. They’re different but the same every time.”

“I dunno,” responds Alfred, though he’s honestly sounding as if he means that statement. “It’s kinda weird to think everyone’s the same in the audience. It’s stressful to keep expectation! But I think it’s a healthy kind of stress, y’know? We’ve both been in this kind of work for years. I think maybe eventually the anxiety lessens. Not entirely gone. But less.”

Arthur wishes it was less. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps. But it’s not today.”

“Don’t worry, Artie. You’ll do good. You always do good.”

Arthur couldn’t tell if the statement was meant to make him riled, but Arthur exhaled sharply anyway. Alfred had it easier. Entirely easier. He was a natural skater; better than any that Arthur had ever seen. It was the kind of raw talent that was enough to win a medal just for doing a warm-up, and only needed a coach as a means of guided power control. It was entirely unlike Arthur, with lessons galore and repeated executions of the same jumps in order to make sure his leg didn’t stick out at odd angles when it happened. A repeated mess of 4:00 am training sessions, specialized diets, committed ten lap runs and ballet.

And yet even after these instances, Arthur felt more lacking than Alfred. He was a man who had a whole facebook page dedicated to him with at least 10 thousand likes, a transcript of an interview posted on the community newspaper, several first place titles from age 13 upward and not to mention a Sports Illustrated front cover last year.

Stress. He feels his apprehension subside, and Arthur feels his heart finally find some solace as he stands. Alfred blinks, standing to follow but Arthur gives him an expression of riddled exhaustion and five years worth of irritation and jealousy.

“Don’t call me Artie. We aren’t friends.”

Alfred furrows his brows after. “Sheesh. You didn’t need to be so sour.” Alfred stands after him. “I just wanted to tell ya good luck.”

“I don’t need luck, lad. I practiced.”

* * *

 

Silence.

The crowd makes not a single sound, and the only melody heard is the noise of the loudspeakers and the sound of blades connecting with ice. It’s the only thing Arthur chooses to hear. The wind whirls as he jumps, and he closes his eyes to the million cameras and eyes on him. It’s a blinding white when he opens again. The song breathes, and he jumps. Triple Salchow. Arthur lands and he throws his head back after; face thrown upward with an expression of exhaustion. It’s a performance about angry love. A selfish one, riddled in between an idea of jealousy and longing. A performance that portrays itself as the ultimate facade; an obsession.

Arthur imagines Alfred in his gracious form. Hair slicked back, with hands thrown forward, Arthur sees Alfred in that sparkling outfit of blue, shimmering. Smiling. Welcoming.

Arthur can’t tell if he wants to hold those hands or slap them away.

He shuts his eyes as he goes into a final spin, pulling his arms inward as he spins faster. Faster.

Arthur remembers the instance of when Alfred gave his flowers to him. The ones he had picked up from the ground and scooped up, refashioned into a hasty present to give him when his ankle had broke.

Arthur then remembers himself the second the song concludes, and he feels his teeth gritted together. His arms are extended, facing the judges. The applause that follows is a sea of professional claps. There are no signs with his name on it held up within that audience; it wasn’t a luxury that he had. No cheers, as it normally was.

Arthur feels his heart finally collapse. The judges keep their gaze downward and Arthur can’t tell their thoughts behind it. He doesn’t want to look at the score.

Resigned, he heads for the exit, only to be blocked by a flash of blue darting right into the ice. Arthur widens his eyes.  
“Alfre--”

Arthur feels himself tugged into a haphazard embrace, with a warmth and an excited laugh heard from him. He can’t get any words out, and tears prick his eyes as he shoves Alfred away from him immediately. Alfred, thrown aback, gives him the space; confused.

“Don’t.”

The command was resolute. Alfred frowns. But Arthur doesn’t let him ask why.

“I don’t need your empty compliments, Alfred.” His fist is clenched and his heart opens. It hurts so much his eyes can’t hold it and they spill into tears. “Congratulations.”

Alfred’s eyes become troubled, eyebrows furrowed as he straightens up. “For…what?”

“For another win,” Arthur almost laughs, but he chokes. His hands go to one of his eyes, trying to furiously take away the feeling of the wetness, make-up be damned. “Another _victory_ , if that makes more sense.”  
“Arthur, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t...”

The comment breaks him. Arthur’s face finally gives in, twisting into a mess of ultimate acceptance. And Alfred’s eyebrows raise. Of course he wouldn’t know.

“Maybe,” Arthur gets out, finally collecting himself after a few moments of reflection. “This competition might h-have been a way to blow off a weekend for you. But this...I can’t, Al. I don’t know what else I can do to be level. Four bloody years, and I still can’t,” his voice cracks again. “My coach didn’t even want to show up when your name was on the roster.”

Alfred stares. Listening, as it seemed. Something that he didn’t think that was capable of him. But his expression softens. He jerks his chin in the direction just above him, and looks back at Arthur.

Arthur looks.

_1st - Number 04 - UK - Arthur KIRKLAND (224.59)_

_2nd - Number 05 - USA - Alfred JONES (219.11)_

Arthur’s jaw drops. The tears weren’t restrained anymore as he began to cover his mouth.

The crowd cheers. And it’s the most beautiful thing Arthur hears in his life.

He turns around to speak back to Alfred but he is gone, having darted across the stage to where the judges were. And snagging the medal out of their hands.

Arthur covers his mouth, watching as Alfred grins, skating with ease and right over to the frozen form of Arthur flabbergasted. The gold metal glistens. And Alfred takes no time to just place it right around his neck.

“... you know, Arthur,” Alfred hums, seeming to then take the time to embrace him. Arthur swallows. “You wanna talk about level?”

Alfred hums, kissing him right on the forehead. Arthur blinks. The kiss mark is felt. And his face goes scarlet.

   

“You give me too much credit for it. I’m thinking, maybe, I’m the one who needs to get level.”

Alfred lowers his head just an inch. “Maybe this height is more comfortable.”

Before Arthur could respond, Alfred laughs as he skates away, leaving Arthur with a stuttering rebuttal that didn’t hold its strength.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the link to the USUK Calendar Post! ([Link Here](http://usuknetwork.tumblr.com/post/168623138489/usuk-christmas-countdown-2017-december-16))  
>  _Posted December 19, 2017_


End file.
